


Black Annis

by MemoryCrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bromance, Friendship/Love, Funny Dean, Gen, On a case, Pie, Sweet Sam, also sweet cas, awkward dean and cas, episodic, everglades, faerie lore, odd cas, surly dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: A case takes the Winchesters to a down and out Fish Camp in the Everglades. Dean calls Castiel for help.





	

The case took Sam and Dean into the Everglades. It was reported that something there was preying on people; feeding, it appeared. Also, a number of dogs went missing. A rogue gator seemed a reasonable bet, but there were odd details.

Chest cavities might be ravaged, ribs in splinters and heart and lungs devoured, but the contents of bellies were made into… art? Intestines were unraveled to their amazing lengths to frame the victims, like a spool of ribbon. Stomach placed at the foot, liver at the head. Gallbladder, pancreas, spleen… all left within and ignored; little, throat-clenching bits of squelchy viscera.

_Giblets_ , Dean thought, looking ill as Sam poked around in all of it. Rather than ill, Sam looked interested. Curious, maybe playful. _Hmmm_ , said his impish eyes. Though gastrointestinal organs were eschewed, the kidneys and adrenals were eaten. Or were otherwise missing.

Yes, it was weird and gritty and nothing one wanted to look at first thing in the morning. Or _ever_. But was it unnatural? Or, more to the point, was it supernatural? Could it not be, say, a ritualistic, psychopathic fuckhead with very specific culinary desires? The skulls were generally intact, or sometimes bashed in as cause of death. No missing brains, though; so, probably zombies could be ruled out.

It was funny how life plodded on. Of course, people were shook the hell up. Family members of the deceased were almost too shocked and horrified to mourn. And yet… Dean heard all the usual bitching and moaning of life. He heard a woman’s voice, strong in accent, maybe Jamaican, say, “And do you _tink_ dey will give us de raise? Hell-shit _no_.” A Bobby-esque fellow, though with less in the way of teeth, sang along with a radio as he worked on his truck _. Lord it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way…_

And, just before his latest excursion to the crime scene, he’d been bamboozled by a little girl of two or three… She’d come barreling out of a trailer wearing an adult sized t-shirt, like a tipi on her diminutive frame. Seeing Dean, she’d come up short. Then she smiled, lifted the t-shirt and crowed, “I got _panties_!”

He’d had an urge to say _hot damn_! And congratulate her with a high five. But he was on his way to examine the catastrophic shit that had befallen the latest victim, and – also – a woman he assumed was panty-girl’s mother emerged from the trailer. Her manner was tired and nicotine-stained. Her eyes seemed to go a little hungry when she saw him, and the shiver that walked upon his skin was not pleasant. He gave the kid a serious frown and moved on.

It was fucking sweltering. It was heavy heat, full of water that was in no way refreshing. It took no time at all for he and Sam to forego the conservative fake-out of Federal attire. Day one; jackets off, sleeves rolled up, damp ties balled up in pockets. Day two; jeans and t-shirts. Day three; they went native. Cargo shorts, no shirts. Dean’s shoulders and upper back were red and put off a heat he thought might be permanent. He was starting to peel. Sammy, the brat. He just baked into a golden-mocha. No prickly-heat-rash-Viking-meets-swamp-freaking-melanoma. Nope. Just an overgrown Mowgli-child, hanging with Bagheera and the wolves. He had no problem walking through wetlands and wading through swamp water… While Dean had the heebie-jeebies. He was way more wigged-out by gators and cotton-mouths than by errant spirit critters or nutjobs that liked to play with their food.

His lip curled as Sam went about foretelling the future via entrails. Or whatever he was intuiting, deducing from the gore. Was that what the predator(s) was doing? Even if firmly set in the realm of human, was the purpose tied to the supernatural? Maybe a summoning spell or a sacrifice… maybe payment.

The smell was God-awful; things went to rot quickly in the swamp. Sickly meat decay met fish and algae decay…. Good times.

“What’ve we got, Sammy? Is it Bigfoot?” There was local talk of a ‘swamp ape’, a legend of old that many believed, absolutely. There was also some mention of a pack of ‘devil dogs’, clearly not Hellhounds. But would dogs make entrail art? When talking to the locals, it could not be ignored that many grew acres of marijuana in the scrub, under palms and slash pine. The Bobby-esque guy, true to form, pretty much had a car-lot around his property. Evidently some of the vehicles were used as little curing sheds, pot leaves drying and baking in the shelter and heat. Dean had heard him, lazy, say to his girlfriend, “Babe, can you get my weed out of the Toyota?”

One had to maintain a filter for the things the locals said.

Standing, Sam said, “I don’t think it’s Bigfoot.”

That was disappointing. “Devil dogs?”

“Seems unlikely.”

“What, then?”

“Oh, you know. Probably something demonic. Maybe angelic.”

Dean, despite the usual, was surprised. Yes, it was horrible, as was so much of what they witnessed. But, maybe enhanced by the ‘Deliverance’ feeling of the so-called Fish Camp, it all just seemed so…. human. The crap side of humanity, for which there seemed to be no end.

“How do you figure?”

Squatting down again, the ease, thoughtless strength of a Mowgli-boy; eyes impish, nose Puckish; Sam said, “The other body was too far gone… But, look.” He pointed at a section of looping intestine.

Was Dean supposed to see something? Other than something slippery and gross that was not meant to be outside of a body? Ever. “What? What am I looking at?”

“It’s been arranged into script. See?”

…. _No_.

“Canaanean, maybe. Noachite… it’s hard to tell in gut. Something prediluvian. I sent a picture to Bobby to see if he makes anything of it.”

Jesus. Couldn’t practitioners of evil just get with the texting, already? Or good, old fashioned blood ink and a scroll of vellum, if one must. Don the fru fru cloak, say some spooky words, wait for the Grigori to appear _. Gordita! Chalupa! Urethra! I have it!_

“Who writes in intestine?”

Sam raised his brows, his eyes sort of conveying – Hey, am I the only one working this? Yeah, yeah. Gruff, Dean walked away. He needed a beer… he suspected that’s exactly what panty-girl had in her Tommy-Tippy cup.

 

 

Despite the extreme gross-out, it was one of the most boring, lackadaisical cases they’d ever worked. Nothing… seriously _nothing_ happened, and then, _ta-da_! There was a body. No one was having visions, no strange coincidences were stacking up. Frankly, no one seemed smart enough to be engaged in the dark arts. Maybe not quite literate enough.

Dean started to feel like his own intelligence was slipping. The heat, the surroundings… it dulled the mind and made time slow to a crawl. And yet days slipped by, case unresolved. It felt dreamlike in a trapped, looping way. He almost accepted an offer to get stoned with panty-girl’s mom, who was gaunt and looked older than her years. Collar and shoulder bones stood out in relief, and; enshrouded in an utterly unsupportive tube top; her breasts looked tired and disappointed with the way life had turned out. He thought better of the pot and returned to the cabin he was sharing with Sam.

_Cabin_. There had to be another word for it. It was shelter, sort of. The bathroom was a separate building, and featured a slanted floor which angled towards a drain in the center. Damp, dark, sulfuric… maybe the case _was_ about demons. Demon Camp, rather than Fish Camp. Demons gather around the constant, mucky, death-centric decay which, eventually and in gaseous grossness, burped up life.

Sammy noticed small things. One morning there was an entangled mess of Daddy Long Legs in the corner of the bathroom from hell. Like, hundreds. A little tumbleweed of dead, thread-legged spiders, tucked into a rank corner.

“Why?” Sam asked of the mass kill-off.

Dean didn’t know. He’d never particularly wanted to know the secret life of arachnids, so he could offer little. “Maybe… that’s their pattern? A die-off, like plants going dormant in winter?”

“I don’t think so, Dean.”

“Well. Hell if I know. The weird-ass world of nature and science… that’s your department, Sammy.”

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t untrue. The more Dean felt as if his brain swelled with mosquito-borne encephalitis, the more Sam seemed in tune with the land. He _liked_ it. Dean saw broken people, broken cars, falling apart trailers and the sad effort of plastic flowers, planted in dirt, long faded and cracked. He saw the gaping maws of death everywhere… death by gator, by venomous snake, by stepping on the jagged edge of a shell and becoming infected with disease that lingered in the air and polluted the water. It wasn’t his most favorite location, ever.

But Sammy… Browned and nearly bare, going without shoes and smelling always of briny water and something soft, hot from the sun. Sam saw cypress trees and a landscape of their colonized, phallic knees. He saw hidden orchids, no bigger than his pinkie-nail, and trees full of ibises. Ospreys, wild turkey, tiger rays and mangrove trees. He saw these things, he sloshed in water and shimmered in the sun, and was beautiful. It was as annoying as hell, so to speak.

Even with Sam’s relative clarity and interest, the case was going nowhere. Time went from its creepy-crawl to a full stop. On the one hand, no one else turned up dead. On the other, previous dissection and augury led to naught. (Not that Dean was overly familiar with words like ‘augury’ and ‘naught’. Sam had to get fancy at times.)

Fed up and unable to shake the slow, syrupy feeling taking over body and brains, Dean made a casual murmur, under his breath.

“…. Cas….”

He got a tingle. A welcome chill in the breathless heat. Fingertips walked down his spine, his back bared to whatever evil this place might cook up. The tingle evaporated, so, with more deliberation, he said, “Castiel. I, um, _pray_. Could you just show up, already?”

Instead of a tingle, there was a familiar sort of _whoosh_. A sense of a little vacuum of air sucked into nothingness, just at his nape, and then empty space became filled with presence.

Dean, always startled by it, even when expectant, whirled around. The angel, as always, was attired as Inspector Gadget. His changeable eyes looked dark, even a little bruised. They moved over Dean, and he pronounced, “You’re naked.”

As happened at times around Cas, Dean blushed. It was peculiar, embarrassing. No one studied him so closely as did Castiel, his eyes unflinching. Staring. His expression always a puzzled, _what are you_? Which was funny, considering.

“I’m not _naked_ , Cas. I’m wearing clothes.”

“Not many.”

True enough. But he was in a world of shorts and flip-flops; maybe not the most attractive world. Tube tops, if one was so inclined. Of course, panties. Bathing suits that were faded and nubby, and smelled of salt water and algae-swamp, no matter how laundered.

“It’s just hot as hell, here, Cas.”

“Not really.”

Dean sighed. It could be so freaking hard to _converse._ This man – _angel_ , he corrected himself – not at all the same thing, could be so stubbornly literal.

“Why did you call me, Dean?”

With another sigh, Dean launched in. “I need help with the case we’re working. Bodies turn up half eaten, with belly-contents made into some sort of statement. Sam thinks the intestines are arranged… like a language? Angelic, maybe.”

Castiel, eyes not leaving Dean, lifted his chin. He appeared to scent the air, and Dean assumed he took in more than the raw, rough pine scent of the cabin; more than a ghost of kerosene or the salt, drying into crystals on Dean’s overheated skin.

“Not angelic.” He said. “It’s fae. Sam’s right… it’s pre-flood.”

In his head, Dean saw a woman in a pink, waitress uniform and heard _kiss my grits_. But, no. That was Flo.

“Fay?”

“Faerie.”

Well, hell. Homicidal Flo he could have gotten on board with. Flat, tired, he said, “What.” From Flo to Tinkerbell. Even with his previous run in with faerie, not remotely pleasant, the viscera finger painting or whatever seemed unlikely.

Another head tilt, ears seeming to attune, whiskers a-twitch, tail a-swish, Castiel said, “Clearly, a bad faerie. To be correct, they’re all bad. They all turned from God. But this one, a flesh-eater; very bad.”

“You think?”

Castiel appeared to be put off by Dean’s sarcasm. His foul mood. His face, a picture both of lightness and darkness, soured in the slightest. For some reason, this always came as a relief to Dean. A small triumph. An attention-seeking, little boy part of himself did a stomping, tribal dance, a band of feathers about his head. He’d done it. He’d poked a reaction from a Son of God.

“What’s the matter, Cas?” he asked, crossing the room, passing close to Castiel as he made his way to the cot that was passing for his bed. A smell of aluminum and the familiar smell of olive drab canvas that followed him, throughout his life. Castiel turned about, keeping Dean in his sight. “Got a bustle in your hedgerow?” Dean added.

“I…. what?”

“Nothing, man.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“And I guess you never will. So. Faerie. Can I kill it?”

“Of course you can, Dean. You’re a killer.”

Well. That was bracing. Dean had said the same thing to himself, letting go of ‘hunter’ at times to speak a more blunt truth. But spoken to him in Castiel’s calm, if a little perturbed voice… under the scrutiny of those _eyes_ …. He felt both naked and dirty. A chill played about his ears. It goosebumped over his belly and tickled up his inner thighs, under the gaping le of the cargo shorts. His nipples got hard, and he was overly aware of Castiel’s eyes, shifting to note the eruption of flesh and liveliness of erectile tissue.

He cleared his throat, unsettled in a few, different ways. “How do I kill it?”

Wonder of wonders, Castiel shrugged off his coat. The cabin, in its luxurious glory, boasted of a Formica kitchenette table with a bent aluminum frame. Castiel dropped his coat over one of its chairs, then began undoing his tie. Dean felt himself watching, glued, as studious as Castiel looking at him. This must be what Cas felt, he thought. . It was like watching gorillas use sign language and trying to absorb the implications.  _Look at it_ , Dean thought.  _It thinks it’s people_.

“The usual ways.” Castiel said. “The fae can’t abide iron. This one, a swamp dweller and a moon worshiper, is immune to salt. In fact, it strengthens her.”

“Her?”

“Yes. The fae is female. But iron, a dagger or other implement of destruction, will kill her.”

Tie was removed. Shirt was unbuttoned at wrists, at collar. It became untucked from trousers, loose. Dean felt his eyes get stuck, unable to look away from the work of Castiel’s long fingers, and it made him nervous. Jumpy.

Fortunately, Sam arrived. He was carrying panty-girl; she rode against his flank, his long arm curled about, her dirty legs dangling down and terminating in rather sweet toes. Her head rested on Sam’s shoulder and her thumb was in her mouth. True to form, she wore only panties; yellow, with little, blue flowers.

“Castiel!” Sam smiled.

“Hello, Sam. You’re naked.”

“Well… no. Not really…”

“You have a child.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Would Castiel’s spoken and spelled-out observations never cease?

The little girl reacted to Castiel. Her thumb dropped from her mouth, her head rose from Sam’s shoulder. She pointed at Castiel, and said, “ _Ooooooooohhhhh_ …..”

“This is Sawyer.” Sam said. She was angling away from Sam, legs clinging but arms reaching for Castiel. “S _hines_!”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam, both wondering what Sawyer saw. And why didn’t she simply see a man, as they did? Then he watched in frank, open-mouthed wonder as Castiel crossed the small space to Sam, smiling. The smile was broad and true, and it changed his face, entirely. It was, in truth, a little weird. He took Sawyer from Sam… monkey-like, she transferred. She clung to Castiel, legs wrapped about, and was happy in the clinging.

“Hello, Sawyer.” Castiel said, still smiling. “I’m Cas.”

Sawyer stuck with, “ _Ooooohhhh_ ….” She touched his face with grubby fingers that had touched God-knew-what. Dean had become familiar with her scent of dirt and algae, baby skin and soft greens. The bitterness of her mother’s cigarettes lingered in her pale hair, and something candy-sweet ghosted about her neck.

Her small fingers pet over Castiel’s lower face, feeling at stubble, molding over flesh and bone. Castiel grinned, bouncing her a little. Dean was numb with amazement.

With a shrug, Sam said, “Well, there goes my fan club.”

He began to walk away, but Sawyer pointed at him and said, “No! Stay put, _son_.”

With a blurt of a laugh, Dean needlessly explained, “Sam gets bossed around by little girls.”

Sawyer giggled, then placed a wet kiss on Castiel’s cheek. Dean wasn’t overly fond of child-slobber, but Castiel appeared to be quite happy. Sam said, “She _is_ pretty bossy.”

Forcing himself to get up, Dean fished bottles of beer from the small fridge and passed them around. Sawyer angled for a sip, and he said, “No.”

She said, “ _Yes?_ ” Already a smart-ass. She held a forefinger up in warning, eyes a sleepy, yet stern grey-blue. Her mouth set. The nerve of this kid. “I said, _no_.” Dean frowned.

They sat around the crooked table, and a discussion ensued about a variety of fae, almost exclusively female, who inhabited swamps and other wild, dangerous places. They were a sort of cat-spirit, the Kettas and Black Annises of faerie lore, and even in person-shape, they had strong, steely claws. They’d developed a taste for human flesh, and some were known to do a little decorating, to get creative with body parts. There were stories of strips of skin hanging from trees, bones arranged into modern art. Or, as in the Everglades, some played word games with organs. Arranged script; it was a kink.

“But aren’t those types of faerie in the British Isles?” Sam asked. “Or European. Like Grendel’s mother.”

How did he know this shit, Dean wondered? What he knew of faeries was mostly Tink and the flower-ballerina images in Fantasia, best viewed while seriously buzzed. And, of course, having his ass handed to him by a Leprechaun.

Castiel said, “The fae, like a lot of the half-breed abominations falling between flesh and spirit, follow humans. People migrate, spirits go with them. This is even more true in your new world of globalization. Spirits travel in your virtual world as well as upon the Earth.”

Sawyer became engaged in a canine-like game of visiting each person at the table. She wriggled down from Castiel and scaled Sam. Sprawled in shorts, his largeness was more apparent than ever. Sometimes, despite the implacable evidence before him, Dean forgot about Sam’s incredible growth spurt. He could only see his baby brother, a puppy with sensitive, sometimes all-seeing eyes.

But there he was, bared. All long bones and big hands and feet. A sculpture in flesh; it was kind of startling. Effortless, strong, he lifted Sawyer up – over his head – making her squeal. Up in the air, down to his lap, up in the air…. It was amazing, the simplicity of _motion_ that could be so thrilling to kids. He wondered if he’d felt that way, during whatever brief time he’d spent in what passed for his childhood.

Sawyer made her sticky way to him, and he grimaced a little. He didn’t really have a kid-touch, and he was too hot to have her fevered little body, bare and damp skin, smooshed up against his. “Kid.” He said, by way of greeting.

She menaced him with her forefinger, again. Apparently, he took a lot of discipline. “Don’t hurt feelings.” She warned.

“Yeah, Dean.” Sam shook a forefinger.

Sawyer christened him with baby girl grime and her general halo of swamp, and he did his best not to hurt feelings. He was relieved when she scrambled down and rushed back to Castiel. In spite of her social openness, her affectionate generosity, Cas was clearly her favorite. He hoisted her up as she climbed, and she adhered to him like Velcro. “Why shines?” she asked, playing with his hair.

He made a big-eyed, questioning face at her, as if to say, _Who knows_?

Getting impatient, Dean said, “So… iron kills this bitch-“

“ _Dean_.” Sam’s bark was soft, head tilting to indicate the presence of the little girl. Please, Dean thought. She’s probably already smoking. But he amended, “Er… this witch. But how do I find her? She’s been like a ghost. No… worse than a ghost… No cold spots, no goo, other than the bodies…”

Wrapped up in a cocoon of cuddle, Castiel said, “As I told you, Dean, she’s a moon worshipper. The moon, the water, the tides… these things are sacred to her, part of her old magics. Wait for the full moon and leave her a gift…. Do it near where she’s left evidence of her hunting. Moonstones, spheres of quartz, moonflowers… any of these things will draw her out. The further out in the open, the better.”

With satisfaction, Dean said, “And then I gank her.”

“As you say.” Castiel nodded. “Be careful of the locals.” He added, hugging Sawyer more closely. “This spirit, moon-bound as she is, affects minds. She can gift people with psychic abilities.” He glanced significantly to small Sawyer. “She can also cause madness. Lunacy. She usually travels with packs of moon-mad dogs, so you’ll need to be ready for them, as well.”

“Devil dogs!” Sam said, recognition of local lore making him excited. "The _missing_ dogs."

Dean groaned, and Sawyer burrowed her head against Castiel. Her thumb returned to her mouth. “Don’t worry, Sawyer.” He told her. “Dean’s a good hunter. Nothing is going to harm you.”

Oh. No pressure.

 

 

 

But Castiel was right. He and Sam were good hunters. Once they knew what they were dealing with, it was all said and done pretty quickly. It turned out that Bobby-esque’s pot-fetching girlfriend fancied herself a Wiccan, and had moonstone to spare. (She handed it over to near-naked Sam with hypnotized, horny doe-eyes). Plus, they were right at the cusp of the full moon. The faerie appeared, at first an astonishingly beautiful woman, besides which, stark naked. She walked through darkness to the sound of alligator roar and frog song; to the trill of nightjars and the ball-curdling shriek of a fox. Her dogs came slinking behind.

As soon as her fingers curled around the moonstone, she sensed them. The admitted distraction of naked and hot female morphed into something haggish and gruesome, dripping swamp slime and emitting a century’s worth of B.O. and tooth decay. It was almost a relief. Dogs were taken out with buckshot, the pellets made of nickel-iron. Dean ran the moon-faerie through with a long blade of cold, black iron, and after some notably gator-like thrashing around, she resolved into something like a motley, carrion-breathed bob-cat. Almost peaceful at that point, she died.

The only fall-out was that she’d breathed something; a spoken word, a charm; directly into Sam’s ear. It planted a little infection, a little lunacy, into a boy-man who was already so vulnerable to the dark. To the things that squirmed there.

In the cabin, Sam was jittery. He vibrated where her stood, fighting to maintain himself. His hands wrung, his face was a mask of worry. Bouncing on his toes, he said, “I’m all hopped up on faerie juice, man!”

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean said. He put a steadying hand on Sam’s arm. “Take it easy.”

Sam made a spazzy sound of _aaaarrrrrrgggghhhhh!!!_ “I have to do evil!” Finger to thumb, he thumped Dean, hard, on the forehead. It seemed to give him a measure of relief.

“O _kay_.” Dean growled.

Castiel was suddenly there, and he still had Sawyer. She was asleep in his arms. Eyes indicating the sleeping child, he said, “Let’s not have any undue fuss.” He touched Sam’s head, and the lunacy passed.

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam said.

Castiel nodded and was gone again, child in tow. Shaking his head, Dean said, “I hope he’s not kidnapping panty-girl.”

“Sawyer, Dean.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

 

 

It seemed like they were never able to do a touchdown dance, a victory lap. There were moments when Dean craved it… arms up, beaming at the adoring and grateful crowd as he ran. Congratulatory pats on the ass.

The things they dealt with were just so off the cuff, so weird and generally not accepted as real… Or, of late, there was a surprising amount of demon sympathy out there. No kill was unambiguous and clean. Purely heroic. Even for Castiel, righteously kickass, it wasn’t pure.

Still, Dean wished for the day he could smile wide and shout out in his best Bill Murray; _We_ came, _we_ saw; _we kicked its ass!_ Bunnies from the Mansion, arriving to hang medals about his neck… Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’ playing in the background…

Buxom women, bursting with gratitude, holding pie dishes with both hands, trembling so that whipped cream smeared upon rounded bosom… he was tasked with fishing a maraschino cherry from cleavage… a ZZ Top montage of boobs and bared legs; a Tube Snake Boogie.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Castiel, and the timing was unfortunate. Sam was out, on a burger run. The motel was in some Indian-mound-named place, southeast of home by far north of the swamp. Taking advantage of a moment alone, Dean’s hand had strayed down his jeans, women and pie mingling in powerful ways in his head.

And then there was Cas. “What are you doing, Dean?”

“Oh, for crying out loud! _Jesus,_ Cas!”

Castiel looked with puzzlement and judgment upon Dean’s shocked blasphemy. His eyes kept sliding to Dean’s crotch.

“What do you _think_ I’m doing, man?”

“Do… you have an itch?”

“Why?” Dean asked the ceiling. He tamed his naughty hand, but felt a self-conscious desire to wash it. He wanted to sit on the bad hand.

“Why?” Castiel echoed. He, too, gave the ceiling a cautious glance.

God. Without a little girl to steer the ship, it was back to literalism and gorilla sign language. Dean missed Sawyer.

“Cas. What’s up?” Maybe a poor choice of phrasing.

“Nothing.” Castiel said, letting go of his wariness of the ceiling. “Just checking in. Is Sam fully recovered from the Ketta ensorcelment?”

“Mostly. Every now and then he sort of erupts and gives me an Indian burn or something. Nothing homicidal or evil, in the traditional sense. In fact, I think he might be faking it.”

“Good.” Castiel nodded. “I don’t wish for his path to be any more difficult.”

“Preaching to the choir, Cas.”

Castiel gave him the look, and Dean regretted that so much of what came out of his mouth seemed to touch on some aspect of religion. Faith. He’d never even noticed it before Castiel… he supposed it came with the territory.

“I don’t mean anything by it.” he said.

“By… what?” Castiel asked, careful. His voice was soft. Deep, though not baritone. It messed with Dean a little, like whipped cream and maraschino cherries.

“The crap I say. Churches and Jesus and all. It just comes out. I don’t mean to offend you.”

Castiel shook his head. “You don’t offend me, Dean.”

“No?”

“No. You confuse me. But you don’t offend me.”

“Oh. Okay. Good, then.”

Out of nowhere, Castiel was holding pie. Dean’s heart stopped. He could smell warm chocolate… something just out of the oven. Maybe peanut butter-chocolate. An edging of scalloped, thick cream. A cherry in the center, melted chocolate pooling around it, the slightest touch of burnt in that way he loved best.

Crossing the motel room, Castiel sat on the edge of Dean’s bed. He handed him an entire pie.

“You’re a good man.” He said.

He leaned close, and Dean was surprised by warmth… maybe a trickle of light leaking from the corner of Castiel’s eyes, like tears. The scent of chocolate was on Castiel, as was Sawyer’s little girl scent. Was he still visiting her?

Castiel pressed soft lips to Dean’s forehead, and Dean didn’t know what to do. He sat very still, holding pie. His heart cranked back up, too fast. Leaning back, Castiel retrieved a fork from his coat pocket and handed it to a slack-jawed Dean. Then he was gone.

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
